Ships on Rocks
by Austra
Summary: When I got the call, I couldn't believe it. Me, a superhero? Hah! Not likely. I wasn't a genius, I wasn't a ninja, I could shoot straight but not in battle, I wasn't a hunky god, I wasn't an undefeatable science project, and I couldn't turn into a huge green monster. What good was I to Nick Fury? T for "intense action sequences."
1. Surprise Call

I'm not exactly the sort of person you'd envision being a superhero.

In fact, I didn't even really consider myself to be one.

I stood at the extremely anticlimactic height of five feet, and I was as scrawny as they come.

I didn't even burst out suddenly with awesome moves, like Natasha. I couldn't handle any sort of weapon. Sure, I could fire a gun and throw knives and stuff, but my health made it tough for me to be able to do this for long. Nobody knew when I'd abruptly stop being able to breathe and have to drop my gun and gasp for air.

In fact, I wasn't aware of the reason for the phone call I got. I was sitting there in my kitchen after having put a loaf of bread in the oven, and I was reading _The Importance of Being Earnest._ My cell phone started to buzz - I always kept it on vibrate and I didn't have a house phone - and I picked it up and mumbled absently, "Hello?"

"Ms. James?"

"Um...yes?"

"Nick Fury here. I'm calling to ask if you'd like to join the Avengers."

"Um, I don't have any political views - and I've got bread in the oven. Good - "

"Ms. James, it's not a movement, and it doesn't have anything to do with the government."

"You mean you're not a second Red Tea Party, or whatever that thing calls itself?" I asked wryly, peeping into the oven with a frustrated sigh.

"No, I'm not. The Avengers is a group that SHIELD calls together when - "

"Shield? A talking shield?" I quipped.

Fury sighed. "No. SHIELD is an organization that - "

"Nope. Sorry. Not interested. Thanks for the call." I hung up and hurried to get the bread out of the oven.

But as soon as the loaf was lying out on the counter, the phone rang again.

With a frustrated sigh, I threw down the oven mitts and answered the phone with an angry twitch of my thumb. "Hello?"

"Ms. James, you have five minutes to get your a** out here with your bags before I order my men to open fire."

"Mr. Fury, you have five minutes to get your a** in here and explain yourself before I open fire," I mimicked him. I didn't like people who tried to threaten me.

"Ms. James, this is not a joke."

"D*** right it isn't!" I retorted.

That was when one of his men put a bullet through one of my lovely, golden-brown loaves. "Oh, you're asking for it, Mr. Fury!" I yelled, not really in the direction of the phone. "All right, Mr. Fury," I hissed into the phone, "I'm coming out. But I'll need about seven minutes to pack."

"Women," I heard distinctly on the other end of the line.

"_Excuse_ me?!" I gasped. "Sexist!" But I wasn't wasting any time. Apparently, I was going to get shot down if I didn't obey right away, so I ran back to my room and threw some clothes together in a bag along with some FOOD! and then I got my - well, I got outside as fast as I could.

I threw my bag down on the ground huffily and crossed my arms. "Mr. Fury!"

"There's no need to shout. I'm right here." Came a voice behind my shoulder.

"Wagh!" I whirled and lost my balance. As soon as I had regained it, I glared at him, my dark eyes taking in his dark face. He had a patch over one eye and the other stared back at me with an inscrutable expression.

I snapped, "Well?" Then I felt a stabbing pain in my chest which meant that I wouldn't be able to breathe for awhile. I felt my eyes widen and my breath barely wheeze out through my chapped lips.

"Are you all right, Ms. James." Nick Fury's tone was not inquiring at all.

"Just - peachy." I hissed, then instantly doubled over, kneeling to the ground and gasping for air.

"Asthma?"

"No!" The word was wrenched from me. "I - " I knew I needed to stop talking or I'd need to cough. Unfortunately, it was too late. I needed to cough, but to cough, I needed air, and to have air, I needed to breathe, and to breathe, I needed this horrible, horrible stabbing pain to go away.

Finally, I forced myself to do the one thing I knew would end my breathing bout, although it would cost me a good deal. I steeled myself and took one deep, sharp, fast breath.

The pain was excruciating, but finally I could breathe again, if only shallowly. I coughed several times and croaked, "Water."

Fury, without the slightest sign of sympathy, handed me a glass of water which I drained gratefully.

Then I stood and looked around. "Hey, where's my bag?"

"In the truck," Fury said in a clipped tone, "which is where you should be."

I glared. "Oh, I'm so sorry that my excruciating pain was inconveniencing you. I do apologize."

Fury's lips twitched - or maybe I just imagined it. "I can do without the sarcasm, Ms. James."

"Yeah, well I can do without the threats and the pain and the kidnapping." I muttered. I lifted my chin. "Do you really think you can get away with this? My family will go straight to the police."

"Family?" Fury's one eye plainly showed that he would have liked to roll said object. "I've done my research, Ms. James. You have no family. The truck, Ms. James."

I swallowed and obediently walked to the truck and clambered in gracelessly.


	2. Meeting New People

So now I was sitting here in the back of Mr. Fury's truck, wondering why the heck I hadn't called 9-1-1 (oh yeah, that's right - they were pointing guns at me) and glumly reflecting on the fact that my gloriously golden and crunchy bread was still sitting on the counter.

And _who_ would feed my pet fox? Not to mention my thirteen black cats.

The thoughts of food which circulated in my brain caused an unflattering rumbling to proceed from my stomach. I was holding a piece of bread in my hand and stuffed it vigorously in my mouth, hoping to calm my excited organs down.

"Boy, this is just peachy." I muttered to myself. "I just love being kidnapped, don't you?"

I've seen enough movies to expect the answer which came from - right next to me.

_This is so-o-o cliche,_ I thought to myself with an eyeroll. _ I mean, seriously. We've got the whole kidnapping thing, and then I talk to myself, and a voice coming from a person I can't see answers me...I might as well be in "Jason Bourne", for goodness' sake!_ I was so busy thinking these dour thoughts that it took me a minute to process what the person had said.

"You get used to it."

"I'm used to it already," I snapped back. "This makes the third time this year." Then, without pausing for breath or considering that this had nothing to do with the previous subject, I asked, "Who are you?"

"Just at present, I'm Bruce Banner."

"What do you mean, 'just at present'?" I asked suspiciously.

"Well, the other guy decided he wouldn't come today."

I knew it. I _knew _it! I was being sent off to the loony bin! Not without good reason, I'll admit, but where were the people in the white coats? "That's nice," I responded, hoping that I'd at least got a calmer guy who'd lost the plot. I mean, so far he'd been pretty nice, but he'd only said three things since I got in here and that wasn't really anything to go by. I wondered if he was tied up. I wasn't, but that didn't mean he wasn't.

"And who are you?" Bruce Banner asked me.

"My name is Regina James." I replied.

"Oh!" I heard a shuffling noise and I poised defensively, just in case my name had triggered some kind of sporadic anger spell. It didn't seem to have, however, as nothing happened after the noise.

"Mr. Banner?" I ventured. "Are you...are you still there?"

There was no response. Abruptly, however, the doors were thrown open again and I winced at the sunlight that poured into the vehicle. I took a quick look around to see if I could locate Mr. Banner and spotted a man curled up in a corner, holding his head with his hands. He looked middle-aged, if the grey in his black hair was anything to go by.

I shook my head. _Weird. We're definitely headed to the loony bin. _

Then I brought my attention to the doors which had just opened. It was hard to see much, because of the bright sunlight, but I could make out another figure stumbling into the truck. From the way he was wobbling about, I figured he was drunk.

_Nice. Oh, very nice. Stick me in the back of a dark, dank truck with a crazy guy and a drunk. Oh, yeah. _This day was just getting better and better. _What's next? A hooker?_

__I guess they weren't done loading people in. A gorgeous redhead flipped into the truck, landing in the classic action-movie pose: kneeling, arms out, head down but looking up. _Sigh_. Great.

The doors shut again and we were off.

"How about some light?" A female voice - the redhead - spoke and instantly the truck was illuminated with florescent lights.

"What the hell," the drunk moaned. He was slumped against the wall of the truck. _Have these people never heard of seatbelts?_ He squinted at the redhead. "Turn it _off_, Romanoff." His face took on that stupid expression of self-satisfaction and pleasure often employed by drunks. "Hah! That's funny. Turn it off, Romanoff..." he sort of trailed off and passed a hand across his forehead.

Romanoff - which was apparently the girl's name (probably her last name) - rolled her eyes slightly. The gesture was almost imperceptible. "A little light won't kill you, Stark."

"That's what they all say," Stark replied with a long-suffering sigh. Then he seemed to notice me for the first time. "Hey, Natasha, who's the broad?"

"According to Fury, she's Regina James."

"I'm sitting right here, you know." I mumbled, but I honestly didn't care that much. I cleared my throat. "We're headed for the loony bin, right?"

Natasha looked slightly amused, but Stark went all out with his laughter. "Loony bin, I like that," he chortled. "Yeah, something like that."

"I...take it we're not, then," I hazarded.

"Three guesses, sweetheart," Stark replied.

"Okay, well, then, what's his problem?" And I nodded towards Bruce Banner, who was still huddled in the corner.

"The other guy must be trying to get out." Stark looked sympathetic. "Hey, Bruce, how're you holding up?"

"Are you _trying_ to get us all killed?" Natasha hissed at him. "Remember what happened last time?"

"Yeah, but he's gotten a lot better at controlling himself."

"Um, guys!" I waved. "Not to, you know, be Johnny rain cloud here, but I just got kidnapped and I have no idea what's going on. Could I maybe get a little information?"


	3. Moves Like Jagger

"Nick Fury is assembling the Avengers again. Only this time, the target hits a little closer to home for you than for the rest of us." Natasha spoke directly to me in a melodic yet businesslike voice. She had an air of authority, but it wasn't condescending, just matter-of-fact.

"I'm sorry, Ms...Romanoff?" I looked at her questioningly to see if I got the name right. She nodded and I continued, "I'll need you to start at the beginning. I don't even know what this 'Avengers' thing is you're talking about. May I ask for an explanation?" I tried to make my voice sound as mellifluous as her own, but I doubt if I succeeded at all.

"Yeah. The Avengers is sort of like a S.W.A.T. team. We come in when the country needs us most, and when government can't deal with it."

"Oh, I see." I thought for a moment. "Why me?"

"'Cause you got moves like Jagger." Stark replied with a deadpanned look.

Natasha ignored his comment. "You have a talent that Nick Fury sees as desirable." The way she said "talent" made me question the choice of the word. It was as though she was terming it the politest way she could. It made me uncomfortable.

"What is that 'talent'?" I asked suspiciously.

Natasha surveyed me, and in that moment, I got an insight into her character: guarded. Cool. Calculating. "You wouldn't believe me if I told you."

"She's right." Stark's character didn't take much deducing. He was obviously a narcissistic playboy who couldn't keep his comments to himself. "It's loony bin-worthy."

I decided to follow Natasha's example and ignore him. I crossed my arms. "Try me."

"Basically, you can make anyone and anything do anything you want them to do."

"Excuse me?"

"Told you you wouldn't believe me."

I was annoyed. "It's not that I don't believe you. You just didn't explain it very clearly."

"When you sing, if you think a certain thought at a person, they'll have to do what you're mentally telling them to do." Natasha summarised. Her facial expression was a blank.

I let out a breath. "Okay. Well, that's actually not the barmiest theory I've ever heard."

"Are you kidding? It's crazier than Tim Burton directing a chick-flick." Stark said.

"Actually, I think that's crazier." I said, just as deadpan as he.

Natasha gave us a "seriously?-shut-up" look. I recognised it easily - it was one I was familiar with myself.

"Well, just because I don't think it's the _craziest _thing doesn't mean I believe it." I said quickly. "I mean, it's a little out there. Can you prove it?"

Natasha gave me a wry look. "I highly doubt that Fury would approve of my allowing you to experiment."

"Yeah, it'd be like inviting Lady Gaga to Eminem's birthday party." Stark added.

I frowned at the analogy; I didn't really understand what he was talking about. Then I shrugged. "Fine. But I now have every right not to believe you."

"Yep." Stark agreed.

"Just curious, your name is really Stark?" I asked him, changing the subject. "I mean, that's...no offense, but it's sort of...different."

"My name's Stark, yeah. Oh wait, did you mean my first name?"

I rolled my eyes. "Yes. I meant your first name."

"Nope. My first name is Tony."

"Tony Stark. Okay." I nodded. "I'm Regina James. But of course you already knew that."

"Yeah. Pleasure to meet you, Regina."


End file.
